


Wounded

by brorotica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bathtubs, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, daddycest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 09:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brorotica/pseuds/brorotica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean comes home wounded after a hunt to find his father in an alcohol-induced stupor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounded

**Author's Note:**

> Mild daddycest. Explicit language. Descriptions of wounds.

It’s three AM when Dean finally pushes into the hotel room, clutching at a gash in his left arm, his skin split open in a long red ribbon of a wound. It’s no longer bleeding, but his clothes and skin are caked with crimson nonetheless, the makeshift mud poultice not doing much in the way of helping. He’s been in the swamp all night, hunting down a rougarou that proved to be a hell of a lot smarter than he is, and he’s glad to just be home right now, even if home is a shitty little motel on the outskirts of Baton Rouge.

The moment he gets in the door, though, he’s overwhelmed by the stench of alcohol, so thick in the air that it makes his eyes sting. He blinks, tears welling up in his eyes, and pushes further into the room, finding his dad splayed out on one of the beds, an empty vodka bottle on the ground beside it and a half-finished thing of tequila beside him. Dean walks over, taking the bottle from John, and his dad simply looks at him, bleary-eyed.

This isn’t an isolated incident- John’s been hitting the bottle harder and harder since Sam left- but it’s rare to find him so catatonic. “Dad?” he murmurs, tilting John’s face towards him, and John simply blinks before leaning forward slightly, the smell of alcohol thick on his breath.

“Sam?” The pleading tone of his voice doesn’t escape Dean, who simply shakes his head and starts to tug John off the bed. He has to get him cleaned up, sober, back to normal. Seeing his dad this way is painful, and while the wound in his arm starts to sting and burn at the movement, it’s worth it to help his dad get better. He hopes he can get his dad better. He’s been trying for weeks in vain.

“Sam’s not here,” Dean reminds gently, helping his dad stand. John sways slightly on his feet but Dean hooks an arm around his waist, smelling more than just the alcohol now. His dad hasn’t showered for days, and while Dean is sure he smells bad, all swamp water and sweat, John smells like the linens of the motel room and musk, unpleasant and thick. “Come on. You’ve got to sober up.”

They make their way to the bathroom, John still asking for Sam, but Dean can’t fix it so he doesn’t respond, shouldering the door open and leaning his dad against the counter in the cramped space. He turns on the shower, wishing it was hot but knowing that won’t do anything to wake his dad up. Once the water is as cold as it can get, he turns back to John, who looks older than he has in years. There are wrinkles on his face caused by a lack of sleep, a look of hopelessness in his eyes. Sam was always his favourite, always the one he liked best, and now he’s gone and Dean is left with this…

He steels himself and starts to undo his father’s shirt, John simply watching him. It’s all he does. He rarely speaks, unless it’s to ask for Sam. “You’ve got to stop drinking,” Dean says lowly, his arm giving a throb of pain. “You’re fucking yourself up.” He tugs off John’s shirt, aware that the man he’s talking to is little more than comatose right now. John isn’t going to remember any of this in the morning. He never does.

Dean sets his dad’s shirt down on the counter, starting to undo John’s jeans and watching him quietly. He still doesn’t look sober, his eyes unfocused, and Dean frowns slightly, touching his dad’s face. “Are you even listening?”

John nods, watching Dean, and they look at each other quietly for a few moments before Dean frowns. “Why do you keep doing this to me?”

“Sam,” John says, and it’s enough of an answer, Dean shoving his father’s jeans down and tugging him towards the shower, John still in his boxers. He stumbles slightly and Dean feels like he’s caring for a child, attempting to ignore it as he helps his dad into the tub and kneels beside him, running a hand through his own mud-splattered hair. Taking care of his wound will have to wait.

Dean doesn’t blame Sam for leaving. He almost wishes he could do the same. But John takes his hand and kisses his fingers, and Dean knows that he can’t leave his dad here, not when there’s the definite chance that he might drink himself into a coma one of these days. “I’m sorry he left,” Dean says, meaning it, and John offers him a slight smile, the cold water soaking his hair, making him look younger. He doesn’t look as drunk, or as tired. Dean supposes that’s a good thing. “But you can’t just drink all the time. You can’t do this to me.”

His words are falling on deaf ears and he knows it, knows that tomorrow night his dad will be just as drunk and just as fucking out of it. John nods, though, and Dean lets his father kiss his fingers, kiss his palm, kiss his wrist, because he needs it and John needs it more. The spray of the shower is cold on his face but he ignores it, tugging off his shirt and his mud-caked jeans and climbing into the bathtub, sitting behind his dad and running his fingers through John’s hair.

The water begins to turn red but Dean pays it no heed, waiting until his dad is asleep, the smell of tequila still cloying to his breath. He’ll have a hell of a time getting John out of the shower after this, but it’s worth it. Just those few minutes where he doesn’t need to worry about his father dying are enough to reassure him that things are okay. Or at least that they will be.


End file.
